


Mon Enfant

by MaleficentMo



Category: These Old Shades - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/M, Fluff, Justin is a sap in love, Monseigneur, So Married, So sappy it is now a tree, enfant, musings, sap, three shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaleficentMo/pseuds/MaleficentMo
Summary: M. le Duc thinks about Léon(ie)Three shot: one early on, one the day after they are married, and one when they are settled.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a native French speaker, so I hope my translations are okay! Please forgive any errors.  
> Also.... Barely any dialogue. Because this is me we're talking about. All I write is dialogue-less disgusting sap. Tx

Justin Alastair, the Duke of Avon, prided himself on taking life as it is dealt. His overly stern father and flighty, apathetic mother taught him independence and strength, which he needed on the occasion of their early passing, leaving him with two young siblings to raise and educate.

Rupert was reckless, _sauvage_ , never thinking things through, always throwing himself wholeheartedly into whatever ill-fated whim catches his fancy at the time. Fanny was vain and ridiculous, making a game out of the posse of suitors that offered and threatened and bribed and mewled and recited for her hand.

He was proud of them both, proud to have been successful in shielding them as best he could from the unfortunate bitterness of reality. They were not an affectionate family, especially as it concerned himself, but it was a small price to pay for their sake. He did not begrudge it. He rarely thought of it, in fact.

Which is why it came as such a shock that Léon the page could look at him as someone to be respected, someone to look up to. M. le Duc could frankly not remember a single time in his life when he had been so openly regarded in such a way. It wasn't a matter of being pleased at the attention- it was disconcerting. He certainly knew better than to show such a thing on his face, but he felt it, and wondered at it. He maintained his placidity and dry sarcasm, but this Léon seemed to be able to read him better than most. He made a mental note that he would have to watch his guard around this remarkably clever little imp.

 

  
She knew all, and stayed. He wondered at it, but did not analyse it as he might- he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the truth. He knew that Léonie- only recently now Her Grace, the Duchess- was a gift he did nothing to deserve. He only regretted his past for her sake. As for himself, well- he did not tend to think in regards to himself much anymore, did he? But not only was she a gift, his _enfant_ ; she was a test. A test he has made for himself: he will spend the rest of his life striving to make her happy, and that shall be his atonement. He had no illusions about where he would be going when he died- he, Satanas!- and really, he would not be entirely surprised if Léonie were to join him there- if only through stubbornness and a constant onslaught until the Devil himself, sick of the pestering, caved and brought her along, for no one would ever accuse his wife of being apart from her beloved _Monseigneur_ \- but he wished a good and happy life for her as far as he could make it possible. And as he had more power than most, he was adamant that his beloved _enfant_ be happier than most; completely blissful, in fact.

 

  
Anyone who had ever had the misfortune of meeting M. le Duc could tell you that Léonie had changed everything. There were times when the two of them would sit in front of the fire in comfortable silence, and he tended in these moments to consider these changes. One that stood out to him particularly was the way his wife would greet him. Even from the very beginning, there was enthusiasm and joy as ' _Monseignuer_ ' entered the room, a shout of happiness, usually followed by her little body barrelling into his. He could not recall anyone ever being so happy to see him, nor any instances where his mere existence and presence filled someone with such joy that they simply could not contain themselves. (As his _enfant_ so aptly phrased it once, "Bah! I feel as though I shall burst!")  
He had not always been happy at his effect on this child- for indeed, she was naught but a child when he first purchased her- but in private moments of contemplation he could admit that he felt himself looking forward to coming home a little more, if only to be greeted in such a way. Indeed there were times when he would tell her- Léon she was, then- that he would not be back until late, to go to bed, do not wait up for him. But they both knew that his page only ever listened to him when it pleased her. And he couldn't bring himself to pretend to be angry when he walked into his study after a particularly long evening to find his _enfant_ curled up in his chair, feet tucked in against the quickly chilling air, arms wrapped around the slim torso, curls precociously haphazard as always, gleaming in the banking firelight. Strangely, he never seemed to mind having to wake Léon- or, as most of the time, try to wake him, and then give up and carry the wretched child to bed- but rather looked forward to it. Which even he could admit was a bit... _un peu étrange._  
She still greets him like that, every morning when she wakes he makes absolutely sure he is the first thing she sees, just to see her sleepy eyes light up as she murmurs " _Bonjour, Monseigneur."_  
_"Bonjour, ma charmante femme,"_ he always replies, and it always makes her smile.  
She has given him so much, and he shall in turn endeavour to never let her wonder if he is as glad to see her, if he misses her as much as she missed him. He hasn't the energy to try to explain, and then ease her arguments, that he doesn't- he misses her, in fact, far more than she could ever miss him, and that he feels more than she will ever know when he looks up to see her walk into a room to come and tell him about some inane nothing that to her is so dramatic, knowing as he does so that she is his as he is hers.  
As they always shall be.


End file.
